What makes a Man
by feralandfree
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock grow up in a world of contradictions: surrounded by luxury and deprivations, respectability and depravity, beauty and horror. In a dreamlike estate, the nightmares they face lead them down their respective paths, as they discover what it is that makes a Man.
1. Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything Sherlockish, so please allow me to write my little stories as consolation, escapism and refuge. Thank you.**

* * *

"Mycroft, come and meet your brother."

"Yes, sir." The young boy stood stiffly to attention as instructed. When his father looked at him, he strode into the room where his mother was waiting for him, lying in a bed and cradling a small bundle.

"Come closer, Mycroft." Mother told him, and her son did as he was told.

"Mycroft, this is Sherlock Holmes, your brother. I expect you to diligently take on the responsibilities your new role implies. Since you have the advantage of experience, you will help guide him and instruct him on the proper way to carry oneself in the world. As I teach you both to be men, you will ensure he abides by the rules at all times and will continue to uphold our family honour and dignity. Any shortcoming will be dealt with accordingly. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Mycroft replied with the respectful alacrity his father demanded. His young eyes fell on the younger ones gazing up at him. The small infant gurgled softly, his tiny fists opening and closing gently. "May I, Mother?" The son dared ask. His mother nodded and so Mycroft allowed himself to raise a hand to touch his brother's soft, pink cheek. "Pleased to meet you, Sherlock." He nodded solemnly.

The newborn swiftly grasped his brother's finger and clutched it tightly, holding the owner in a strangely intense stare, before resuming his infantile gurgles and relinquishing the finger but not the bond he'd created by capturing it.

The father stepped in. "That's enough, dear: you do not wish to spoil the child and mollycoddle him. " He looked at a nurse who instantly removed the infant from his mother's arms and took him away, wailing.

"My dear, you have delivered me a second heir to carry on the family name. For this I am thankful for one is not enough, accidents happen and it is good to have a spare. As you have given birth today I expect you will need rest, confident that by tomorrow you will have regained your vigour and will thus resume your position in the household."

"Yes, dear." His wife nodded, calmly. The husband walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "You have done well. I shall send Hobbes over tomorrow to drive you home. Goodnight, dear." And with that, the father turned and began walking out of the room, confident that Mycroft would diligently follow in his footsteps.

"Mycroft." His mother softly called. Her son turned his head slightly, not wishing to detain and thus anger Father.

"Goodnight, Mother. "

_Goodnight, little Brother._

* * *

"Mycroft, look! A butterfly! It's a butterfly!" Little Sherlock squealed, running to one of the shrubberies in the garden. His brother looked up from his book. "Don't shout, you know it is not dignified."

"But it's a butterfly!"

Mycroft, now ten, decided to indulge his brother, within reason. He stood from his spot on the bench and went to inspect the insect as it rested delicately on one of Mother's hyacinths.

"That, Sherlock, is a _leptidea sinapis_, commonly referred to as a 'wood white'. It's a male, you can tell by the bluish dots on the side over there, and it's part of the _pieridae_ family. Repeat."

The three-year-old's brow furrowed slightly as he concentrated. "Wood white. _Letipea_.."

"_Leptidea…"_

"_Leptidea sinapis, pieridae." _Sherlock turned, wide-eyed and hopeful to his brother who nodded with a smile.

When evening came, the family sat in the dining room.

"I see Sherlock has improved his table manners. I am very pleased." Father nodded at his wife.

"Miss Kinley helped me." The little boy exclaimed proudly. "She showed me how to hold the knife.."

"You have forgotten to not speak until spoken to, Sherlock. You will need to work on that."

His youngest son bowed his head.

"I believe he may have been confused, dear, and thought you were talking to him." His mother interceded for him.

"It is possible." Father nodded after a moment. "You are still young, Sherlock, and are still learning about social interactions. I will allow this occasion to slide, but do not repeat this unpleasant mistake."

"No, Father. Forgive me, Father." Sherlock apologized, never lifting his head.

"Don't slouch, it's unsightly."

His son did as he was told and resumed a more appropriate demeanour for the dinner table.

After a few minutes of silence, conversation was restored as it should be. Mother broke the silence.

"how did you spend your free hour today, Mycroft?"

"I was reading a book of my choice, Mother. '20000 leagues under the sea' by Jules Verne."

"Is it to your liking?"

"It is interesting, Mother."

"I disapprove of such whimsical stories." Father commented. "Although it is your free hour, I would have hoped to find you making use of it in a more constructive fashion."

"I am sorry, Sir. I will return the book tomorrow." His father did not reply and simply resumed his meal. Mycroft secretly thanked his swift reading, which had allowed him to already finish the story.

"What about you, Sherlock? Have you made a more productive use of your free time?" His father questioned the child.

Sherlock beamed. "I saw a butterfly today!"

"That's nice…" Mother began.

"A butterfly? Isn't that a little vague, Sherlock? Did you not think to discover more?" His father raised a brow menacingly.

"It was a _Leptidea sinapsis, _ of the _Pieridae _family_."_ Sherlock repeated what his brother had taught him.

"I believe you mean _Sinapis_, Sherlock." His father corrected him, although he was clearly pleased because he did not criticise the boy for wasting time chasing insects.

The three-year-old turned to Mycroft, who with a faint smile showed his approval.

After dinner Father called the two brothers for some further "training" in the smoke room. Father sat on his big, red armchair by the fire, puffing at his pipe, while Mycroft and Sherlock each sat on a chair.

"Sherlock, name the first seven kings of Rome." His father commanded.

"Romulus, Numa Pompilius, Tullus Hostilius, Ancus Martius, Tarquinius Priscus, Servius Tullius, Tarquinius…." The little boy started breathing heavily as he forgot the name. His eyes flicked to Mycroft, who puffed his chest as if he were really haughty or…proud! "Tarquinius Superbus!"

Father nodded.

"Mycroft, when did Tarquinius Superbus reign? How did it end?"

"He ruled from 534 to 510 B.C., sir. He was a despot and was exiled from Rome with his family after a revolt headed by Tarquin's nephews Lucius Junius Brutus and by Tarquinius Collatinus, who was also exiled."

After an hour, father was content and the two boys were allowed to go to their rooms for an extra 15 minutes of free time before Sherlock had to get ready for bed and Mycroft had his chess lesson. They made their way up the stairs but suddenly a look of panic crossed the small child's face. "Mycroft, I need to use the bathroom."

His brother mentally suppressed the anxiety that tried to seep into his stomach.

"It's only 8:45, Sherlock. Can't you wait 15 minutes?"

Their father believed strongly in the concept of mind over matter, of never allowing any physical need to overcome or taint the mind's supremacy. Bathroom time was strictly regulated to help educate the boys in how to control one's impulses. Sherlock was allowed more trips to the bathroom due to his young age, but any transgression was punished…And any punishment was memorable enough to be a very effective deterrent.

His little brother began to tear up. "I can't…"

_I will not be afraid. _Mycroft told himself.

_Emotions cloud the mind and weaken it. I will not be afraid. _

The ten-year-old stood for one second, pondering his options. His duty was to the family, to ensure Sherlock was raised as Father desired. Therefore he should stand by and allow his little brother to take responsibility for his actions and face the consequences. Any other choice would be breaking the code of conduct as established by Father. Sherlock would have to wet himself and be punished.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock's bottom lip quivered.

And in that moment he made his choice.

"Come with me." He muttered to the frightened little boy. "We can try using miss Kinley's bathroom."

The two children ran to the governess's quarters, hoping to sneak in and allow Sherlock to use the facilities.

They snuck into her room and Mycroft opened the door to the en-suite. "Quick!" he hissed. Sherlock ran in.

It must have been only a few seconds, but the wait felt like hours to Mycroft before he heard the toilet flush and he saw his brother creep out of the bathroom. The big brother didn't say anything , placing a finger to his lips. Sherlock nodded, trying hard to breathe steadily.

Mycroft began to open the door, and saw a pair of black shoes.

He swiftly pushed Sherlock behind the door with his free hand so that his little brother was shielded from sight.

"What are you doing in miss Kinley's room, Mycroft?" The icy chill in Father's voice made Sherlock tremble and want to use the bathroom again.

"I was unable to wait until 10pm, sir. I apologise for not admitting to my failure."

The three-year-old held his breath. After a moment, Father spoke.

"My chambers, now."

Mycroft followed their father down the corridor, knowing that Sherlock would count to 100 before leaving the room, as agreed, so he would not be caught.

* * *

In the darkness Sherlock sat, huddled against the wall, hugging himself as he waited just by father's bedroom door. He was still learning to tell time, but the short handle had moved by 2 numbers since he had crept out of bed in his pyjamas. He wanted to see Mycroft, but his brother had not yet left their father's room.

Finally the doorknob turned. Sherlock stepped back deeper into the shadows in fear, but soon recognized the back of his brother's head as he closed the door and stumbled down the corridor to his room.

"Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered and his brother halted. "I love you."

"Love." His big brother muttered. The moonbeams, seeping in from the windows along the corridor, were enough to light up the strips of ripped fabric on his back and the face of the ten-year-old as he turned. His cheeks were swollen and bruised, blood trickled from his lip and his right ear.

"That, Sherlock, is a useless sentiment."

Without saying another word, Mycroft walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.


	2. Control

One morning, as the family was having breakfast, Father looked at Sherlock thoghtfully.

"Our youngest son has made good progress." He nodded to his wife. "He is responding well to training, better than his brother."

Sherlock looked nervously at Mycroft. He wanted to say his brother helped him a lot, but Mycroft had instructed him to never ever ever tell anyone he was being aided. Mycroft didn't look up, so Sherlock remained silent. His glass was empty, but just as Peter was about to pour some water, Father motioned and the Young man backed off, leaving the vessel dry.

"I think it is time to move to the next stage, since it's going so smoothly." Father continued. "Sherlock is ready for water rationing."

Mycroft noticed their mother place her fork back on the plate without taking the morsel it carried.

"Are you quite sure he's ready, dear?"

Father looked at her and she lowered her gaze. She had angered him.

"Sherlock," he resumed "from now on you will have a limited supply of water, you will learn to control and resist the sense of thirst."

"Yes, Father." Mycroft's little brother replied emptily.

Mother would not have another bite to eat that morning.

* * *

After breakfast, Father took his wife to her quaters and there they stayed for a full hour. After that, he left for work but she remained in her room for the rest of the day.

When lunchtime came, Sherlock knocked at the door.

"Mother? Mother it's lunchtime! Will you come out?" The boy kept calling, but no reply was heard.

Mycroft walked into the corridor where his little brother stubbornly waited.

"Sherlock, come and eat! Miss Kinley is going to be cross. Your lunch will get cold. Hurry up."

"Mother won't come out."

"She got Father angry."

Sherlock looked up at his brother."I know."

Mycroft shook his head very slightly. Sherlock was probably remembering that incident a few years ago...

"Sherlock, come on!"

"Oh my, what seems to be the matter here?" The two boys looked up, startled by the kindly voice. A sweet lady had walked in through another door. Mycroft scrutinised her: neat, neutral clothes. Comfortable shoes, not new but very clean. She had a small notebook in her right hand, the skin of which bore signs of labour. Staff. New staff. Mycroft was about to say everything was fine but Sherlock spoke first.

"Mother made Father angry and now she won't come out."

"Ah." Her eyes shot up to the older brother. "Well, maybe she just needs to rest, young Master Sherlock."

"But I want her to come out..."

The woman crouched by the boy and rested her hand on his shoulder, comfortingly. "I know you're worried about her and you miss your mother, but think: Do you believe she would be happy to hear you didn't eat your lunch because of her? Don't you think she would rather have a strong, brave little boy who ate all his vegetables? Wouldn't that make her feel a bit better?"

Sherlock took her words in, pondering his options seriously.

"Mother." He finally called. "I am going to eat my lunch, and I will eat everything, even the mushrooms, if there are any. There shouldn't be, because they aren't in season, but if they are there I will eat them. I hope you will be pleased and come out soon. Bye, Mother." And with that, Sherlock marched down the corridor to the dining room.

Mycroft waited for his little brother to be out of earshot when he turned to the woman.

"I expect nothing that transpired here to be spoken of ever again, with anyone. Is that quite clear?"

"Perfectly." She nodded, her eyes seeming to assess him just as he had done with her previously. Whatever the conclsuion she reached was, it seemed to sadden her as her smile faded slightly. "I won't tell a soul."

Mycroft started walking away, but then he paused and turned back once more.

"Thank you for getting my brother to eat..."

"Mrs Hudson." The lady introduced herself. "I am your new housekeeper."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said stiffly before walking to the dining room, where Sherlock would thankfully not find any mushrooms.

Mrs. Hudson glanced at the bedroom door, shook her head, and got back to work.

* * *

Mother came out of her chambers when her husband returned. Mother would always wait at the door to greet Father, even that time she broke her foot. No matter what had happened to her during the day, she would be there when Father opened the door... No matter what...

"Blast these damned diplomatic niceties!" Father cried angrily as Hobbes took his coat and hat.

"That asinine, tedious American ambassador wants to 'take his kids to a show'" he mockingly imitated the diplomat's accent. "So now we have been invited to the theatre to see Peter Pan." He shook his head disdainfully. Although he appreciated the social opportunities certain events provided, he did not approve of frivolous plays. He turned to Mycroft and Sherlock "I expect the two of you to be on your best behavior. The Ambassador has a daughter, roughly your age, Mycroft, and a 7-year-old boy. It is imperative that you entertain them and make a good impression. As for you, dear." He looked at his wife. "The Ambassador enjoys the company of women, so remember to flatter him and be as accommodating as a married woman of your status can allow."

Mother nodded quietly, eyes downcast. She was a rather stunning beauty: graceful and delicate, her poise was the result of years, training as a ballerina. Her neck was long and slender, adding to the effortless elegance of her demeanour. Her husband often made use of her charms and looks to ingratiate the good will of politicians, diplomats and influential people. It was likely he had seen that particular advantage in her when he chose to marry his wife.

Sherlock had her eyes... Mycroft, on the other hand, was the spitting image of his father.

* * *

The evening of the show, Miss Kinley was helping the two boys get ready.

"Miss Kinley," Sherlock asked "What is 'Peter Pan' about?"

"It's a story of a boy who never grows up and lives adventures."

"Why won't he grow up?"

"He doesn't want to, really."

"I want to grow up." Sherlock nodded to himself, thoughtfully. "What type of adventures?"

"Well, he lives on a magic island with fairies and mermaids…"

Sherlock huffed, unimpressed.  
"And Pirates…"

"What are Pirates?" He perked up.

"Pirates are people that travel on a ship, breaking rules and doing naughty things." Miss Kinley responded, shaking her head in mock, exaggerated disapproval. "They are not nice, so Peter Pan fights them."

"But why do they do naughty things? Don't their parents stop them?"

"Pirates don't have parents." Mycroft interjected impatiently. "That's why they do what they want. Now come on, we don't want to be late!"

During the play, Sherlock was very quiet, taking everything in. He occasionally looked at his big brother, with the wide eyes of someone who had made a significant discovery. Mycroft behaved as instructed, charming and pleasant company for the American children. The Ambassador was very pleased when they parted, as was Father. Overall, the evening had been a success.

The next day Mycroft and Sherlock were rewarded with 30 minutes of free time before breakfast. As they were in the gardens they met Mrs. Hudson as she made her way to the kitchens.

"Why, good morning, young masters! Did you have fun?" She enquired. She wasn't as attached to form as the other housekeeper was. Mycroft wondered how long she would last…

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock looked at her very seriously. "I know what I want to be when I grow up."

"My, at such a young age! And what is the profession you have chosen, may I ask, master Sherlock?"

"I…" Sherlock puffed his chest out proudly "I am going to be a pirate!"

.

* * *

.

All too soon, free time was over and everyone was once more at the breakfast table.

"Mycroft, what would you like to do for your birthday, tomorrow?" His mother smiled, pouring tea into her husband's cup.

The young man had decided what he wanted to do the previous evening. "I would like to go sailing, Mother." He looked nervously at his father. Hopefully he would not consider the request too outrageous, although he was being more daring than the previous year…

The man nodded "That seems reasonable. We will go sailing tomorrow."

"Wonderful, dear!" The mother cried softly. "We can have Greta prepare picnic baskets and have a lovely lunch _en plein air_. "

Sherlock squirmed excitedly. A boat! They were going to go on a boat!

"Thank you, sir." Mycroft smiled slightly at his little brother's enthusiasm.

"Well, you'll be going to Eton soon, so it is quite fitting that we should have a nice day all together, right, dear?" Father turned to his wife.

"Of course, dear." She responded automatically. Her son looked down and resumed his breakfast.

The rest of the day was spent with his various tutors. Since the holidays were almost over, he would be going to boarding school in just a week's time; Father had increased his son's training over the last few months to ensure he had "good foundations to build on"... Every hour was accounted for, with lesson after lesson: from chess class to history, from fencing to mathematics. Even his free hour had been reduced to 30 minutes...The time restriction however had helped Mycroft speed up his secret reading considerably. He was becoming evermore able at hiding things from others: he still read the books he wished, although he knew his father would disapprove of them, concealed in various places and smuggled in by a bribed Hobbes. Mycroft had already begun to think of how to sneak things into Eton without being discovered; The young man had to admit he was beginning to enjoy the thrill of secrecy and subterfuge...

.

* * *

.

That night, Mycroft woke up in a sweat.

_Oh no, not again. _

The pain was blinding him. Pure, unadulterated fear threatened to take over. His fists clenched so tightly his fingernails dug into his palms until they drew blood. He wanted to scream so badly, but he could not let that happen, not after last time. He reached for a small stick he had hidden under his pillow and bit into it to help him cope with the pain as he repeated his mantra internally.

_I am in control of my body, I am in control of my mind…_

_I am in control of my body, I am in control of my mind…_

"_THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!_

_A MAN ISN'T A SLAVE TO HIS BODY_

_A REAL MAN DOESN'T DO SUCH THINGS_

_IT'S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD…"_

His father's words seeped into his thoughts like poison, making Mycroft tremble.

Shaking violently with agony, he tried to silence the nightmarish memories.

_I am in control of my body…_

Gradually the pain subsided as his body responded to his thoughts. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief; he was getting better at this. The episodes were becoming far less frequent and they lasted less. Hopefully he would soon be rid of them forever. He carefully lifted the sheets and eyed his groin. Droplets of blood smeared his clothes and the linen, but not as much as last time. He reached for a tissue to wipe the sweat from his forehead and realised his cheeks were wet with tears.

He had been crying, this was unacceptable. Mycroft clenched his jaw: he could not allow himself to cry, not EVER. Next time he would focus on that. He had to be in control of his mind and his body, at all times, under any circumstance.

It would be impossible to sleep for quite some time. Once he felt he could handle it, Mycroft rose from the bed, donned his dressing gown and left his room, walking down the long corridor to the south wing terrace where they had breakfast in the summer. He breathed in the night air and looked over to the gardens from which he heard the song of a bird.

It was a nightingale, and for a moment Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy the animal's concerto. The lucky little bird sang freely, unburdened by the concepts of shame, tradition or respectability…Oh how he envied that tiny creature.

"What can you tell me of the common Nightingale, Mycroft?" His entire body stiffened when he heard the voice coming from behind him.

"Yes, sir. Nightingale: _Luscinia Megarhynchos, _an Old World flycatcher, Muscicapidae.

It's a migratory bird, present in many works of literature, from Homer's 'Odyssey' and Sophocles' tragedy 'Tereus', to T.S. Eliot's 'The Waste land'. Its song is often described by poets as a lament. Only unpaired males sing at night, most likely to attract a mate."

By the time Mycroft had finished speaking, his father had come to stand by his side, arms crossed behind him as they both overlooked the garden.

"Thou was not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown."

The man spoke.

"Keats, 'Ode to a Nightingale.'" Mycroft replied.

"Have you had an episode?" He asked. His son nodded silently, head lowered in shame.

"The device will help with that. I know it hurts, but soon enough you will be free from such brutish physical reactions. A man is not a slave to his passions; he commands them with iron willpower. You'll thank me one day."

"Yes, Sir."

His father walked back to the French windows, halting for a final word to his son.

"Do not change your pyjamas tonight. They will help you remember in the morning."

As if he could ever forget...

Mycroft was 12 years old.

.

* * *

**Author's note: I just want to thank RockingtheRedhead, I noticed she has reviewed all of my Sherlock fics! I really appreciate it, thank you!**

**In case you were wondering, Mr. Holmes is making Mycroft wear a Jugum penis, so he can learn to control his impulses at all times...**


	3. Restraint

The night breeze gently blew through the curtains of his room. Outside, a fox scouted the gardens, cautiously hunting for food under the stars. It was almost midnight, and the house was silent. Lying on the bed, Mycroft linked his fingers behind his head. Tomorrow he was going to Eton!  
In years to come, Mycroft would come to wonder if his father had succeeded in making a stronger man of his eldest son, because at the moment he felt no fear, and was completely unaware that others were scared and wary of being separated from their families... They were all so unlike Mycroft, who, regardless of what boarding school life was going to be like, couldn't help being pleased: one more night, and he'd leave this place!  
The boy looked at his watch, then roamed the room with his eyes. Under his instructions, Hobbes had removed all secret books the boy had kept concealed; Sherlock had successfully learned to control his need for food and water, but a couple of bottles lay hidden in the garden, just in case; all personal belongings were neatly packed in a suitcase...Everything was ready.  
He was about to close his eyes when he heard a soft knock at the door. He jumped to his feet, genuinely startled: Mycroft always heard the footsteps long before anyone reached his door, except this time. Whoever it was, this visitor was very light-footed.  
"Come in." He replied, mildly interested: as long as it wasn't his father, whose steps he knew better than his own, Mycroft didn't really care who had come knocking. The door was slowly pushed open.  
"Mother!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows as she walked into the room.  
She stood before him, barefoot. Her light, white nightdress covered most of her body but fell so loosely it revealed how frail her figure was, and how much weight she must have lost since she first wore it.  
"Hello, Mycroft. I...I didn't wake you, did I? I saw the light was still on..." Her quiet voice trailed away distractedly, looking around the room.  
"No, Mother. I was awake." Mycroft replied blankly.  
"Oh. Good." His mother's hands were joined, her thumbs nervously rubbing against her index fingers.  
"Is there something I can do for you, Mother?" Mycroft finally spoke, awakening his visitor from her apparent reverie.  
"Well...Well." She sighed. "Eton. Tomorrow you'll be going to Eton, Mycroft."  
"Yes, Mother."  
"Are you...Pleased?"  
"Yes, Mother."  
"I am, too."  
Mycroft didn't respond. He didn't expect a tearful goodbye: he knew that was not to be expected...But, although Mycroft would never admit it, there had been a small part of him that begrudgingly hoped he would be missed. Now he discovered his mother was actually happy to see him go...He clenched his jaw; at thirteen he had no excuse, he would not let this hurt him.  
"It will be good for you." She nodded, speaking more to herself than to him. "Being around boys your age, in a safe environment, great education...Growing up..."She looked up. "It'll be good for you, Mycroft."

"Yes, Mother."

"You used to call me Mummy, once."

For a moment they stood like that, facing each other, in complete silence. Mycroft then realized it was the very first time the two of them had been truly alone since...Since...

Suddenly he was hit by a vague memory of holding a strand of her hair as she laughed, but it was hazy and brief, barely more than a picture. How long ago had that been?

"Your father..." She finally broke the uneasy silence.

"Your father...He means well, Mycroft." She said, almost pleadingly. "He only wants the best for you. The best education, the best career, the best future...It's all for you."

She hesitated, once more seeming to talk to herself more than to him. "He...He means well."

"Yes, Mother. I'm sure he does."

"I asked to send you to boarding school." She admitted, gazing into the face of her son.

"I know he wants to make a man out of you, but...But I want you to be happy, Mycroft." Her crystalline eyes almost glittered as tears filled them. Lost and unsure, she raised her hands helplessly.

Knowing now she was the one who had pushed for him to leave the house, Mycroft took a step towards her.

"Thank you, Mother."

She nodded silently, trying to hold back the tears along with a plea she didn't have the strength to make.

He understood, and granted his mother's wish.

"Mummy."

Suddenly Mycroft felt her embrace him. Her arms, thin and fragile, held onto him in near desperation as she kept him close to her, rocking slightly, her face hidden as she rested it against his head. He could smell her perfume...

In the garden. When he had held her hair and she had laughed, they were in the garden... He could barely speak...

Mycroft didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace, but suddenly she moved away and the cool breeze once more brushed his face and heart.

"Goodnight, Mycroft." She smiled weakly before leaving the room. Her tears were now dry and gone, invisible to all but her son, who spent the rest of the night looking out of the window, gazing upon the garden he once knew.

* * *

"Aren't you going to say goodbye, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, the following morning. His sibling looked to the floor fists clenched.

"I'll come back soon."The big brother added, emptily, as he handed the suitcase to Hobbes. "Remember to check the ashtray. If he's been smoking Padr0n Serie 1962, then stay away from him and hide somewhere, ok? Stradivarius ash is the best, it means you might even ask a favour...It's all written down, but those two are the most prominent, al right?"

"Cohiba behike?

"Pardon?"

"What does Cohiba behike mean?" Sherlock looked at him accusingly. "He's been smoking that since you started packing..."

"I..I don't know. You'll figure it out. When you do, add it to the list."

The two brothers had discovered their father's mood could be determined by what he chose to smoke after meals. Ashtrays were duly inspected and all new types of ash, with the mood it entailed, were annotated in a little booklet. They now had a description for over forty types, but Mycroft suspected the list would get longer.

Sherlock nodded silently, still angry. The eldest son knew his sibling felt abandoned, and would probably blame him for the rest of his life, but Mycroft promised himself he would always keep an eye out for his little brother.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"Do pirates go to boarding school?"

* * *

That morning, when Mycroft got in the car, his mother barely looked at him. They coolly exchanged pleasantries before being separated. His father would later praise them both for how composed and dignified their separation had been. Those tears families wept, as they said farewell, were a pitiful and melodramatic show of vulgar sentimentality. His family was different, better, an example for all to follow.

His son did not reply. Looking out of the window, watching new scenery replace familiar territory, he knew that the morning did not count. At midnight Mycroft had met his mother, and they had said goodbye.


	4. Friendship

Mycroft finished the last page and stretched, his muscles stiff with hours of reading.

He breathed in deeply, savouring the smell of wood and old books.

The library was Mycroft's favourite place, he would spend the vast majority of his free time among its walls. It was particularly thrilling for him to find, invitingly displayed on the shelves, titles he had been forbidden to read. Now they were at his disposal, with no threat of punishment.

And if there were any books that the school forbade, but that perked the youth's curiosity... Well, Mycroft had spotted a couple of members of staff he was sure would be easily corrupted, should the need arise...

He closed the book and placed it on the pile to his left. A fast reader, he had soon developed a tendency to gather books in piles, so as to save time going back and forth among the shelves: to his right he placed some he had yet to read, to his left the ones he'd just finished.

Mycroft picked a new book.

It had been a few months since he started at Eton, and he had taken it in his stride.

After the restrictions and discipline his father had enforced, the Boarding school rules were practically negligible. However, the life he led at home had taken enough hold on Mycroft for him to maintain many of the rituals the youth had become accustomed to, so for the teachers at Eton he swiftly became a paragon of discipline and rectitude, an example for all to follow. Academically, he was heads and shoulders above his peers, further elevating his status as a "golden boy".

All of this did nothing to help Mycroft make friends.

Not that he wanted any.

Because he didn't.

On occasion a few young chaps had tried to strike a conversation with him, usually about some risible tripe, but their topics were so asinine his demeanour never invited any more contact than was necessary, and often his attitude was interpreted as a sign of pride and arrogance. Soon nobody would approach him.

Mycroft would sometimes hear what others said of him when they thought he wasn't around.

Although a part or him was aware that he should feel _something_, their words neither hurt nor offended him. Quite simply, he didn't care.

His father would have been proud...

Mycroft had started a new book, but suddenly he looked up.

A boy, slightly younger than him, was standing in front of the table, looking at him.

He had seen this fellow before; always on his own, he was rather small for his age and seemed to be either too shy or too frail-looking to make friends. Mycroft had classed him as a probable future target for bullies to play with.

The youth was completely silent, clutching in his hands a book and looking at Mycroft who impassively stared back.

Finally, the boy presented the book to him.

The title read "The Catcher in the Rye"

Mycroft took it and placed it on the pile to his left. He had already read it.

The boy walked away, only to return with another book. This time it was "The lord of the flies."

Mycroft looked at it. He hadn't read that one! He took it and placed it on the pile to his right.

The young lad smiled and put his hand on the left pile as a silent request. When Mycroft nodded, the boy inspected the titles and picked "The count of Monte Cristo". He then walked to his own table and they read in silence for the rest of their free time.

The next day, Mycroft returned to the library and saw the boy, completely engrossed in his book. He was sitting at the best table, a quiet, isolated one by the window.

At first Mycroft intended to find another place to sit, further away, but then, for no reason at all, he thoughtfully looked at the lad's own little pile, then went to the shelves to pick a title that seemed to fit with what the fellow had been reading recently. Without saying a word, Mycroft walked up to him. When the boy looked up, he presented him with "The portrait of Dorian Gray", which was accepted. Mycroft then silently picked something from the lad's pile. He was about to walk away when the boy pushed a chair slighly, inviting him to stay...Which he did.

This little exchange quickly became habitual. They would share the table, swap titles in unbroken silence, recommending books by simply handing them over, and then enjoy each other's mute company.

Weeks flew by in this fashion, and Mycroft found himself genuinely looking forward to those quiet hours of shared peace.

One day another boy approached the two, clasping a book he hadn't finished.

He was about to open his mouth to speak, but Mycroft's reading companion glanced at him warningly and the boy's lips remained sealed.

Mycroft didn't look up.

Fine. As long as he didn't speak, he would be allowed to stay.

The new boy hesitantly sat down at the table, breathed a sigh of relief when he found himself unchallenged, and began to read.

A few minutes later, Mycroft reached for a new book. As he opened it, he found a small note from his reading partner. In very neat handwriting, it simply said:

"Club!"

Mycroft didn't say anything and started reading, but those who knew him would notice, dancing at the corners of his lips, a small hint of a smile where there wasn't one before.

* * *

"Mycroft, there is someone on the phone for you. A certain Mr. Hobbes."

"Hobbes! What a surprise! I wasn't expecting an update till tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, Mycroft..."

"Is Sherlock all right, Hobbes?"

"Yes, he's fine. I've left 5 new bottles of emergency water and I've hidden some of your old books in the shed, behind the potassium chloride for the water softener."

"Well done, Hobbes. Next week is Sherlock's birthday, I suspect my father might have something planned for him, so could you please replenish the supply of..."

"I won't be there, Mycroft."

"What?"

"Your father fired me this morning. I can't help you kids out anymore. I...I'm sorry."

Hobbes, Mycroft's eyes and ears at home, hung up.

Somewhere at Eton, a boy stood in frozen silence for a very long time before shakily putting down the phone.


	5. Protection

It was a Friday evening when Hobbes walked away from the Holmes' estate.

Sherlock stood by the kitchen windows as the man carried his suitcase to the back door. Most of the staff didn't want to be associated with those who had fallen out of favour, so very few people showed up when it was time for him to leave. Only 3 people came to bid him farewell: Mr Tanner, responsible for staff, who could afford to be seen with the now unpopular driver; Miss Kinley, who was in love with Mr Hobbes, if Mycroft's deductions were to be believed, and Mrs Hudson who…. Well, who just wanted to say goodbye, apparently.

Hobbes shook hands solemnly with the ageing butler, and gave a small hug to the housemaid. When he turned to Miss Kinley, she started to stammer as she tried to sound cheerful. Hobbes stepped in closer put his hands on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. He then kissed her on the cheek, stepped back and put on his hat. He was about to walk out the door when he saw Sherlock with the corner of his eye. The former employee's gaze rested intently for a moment on the young master, who looked so much like his mother. His hand went to his hat as a mark of respect and he nodded at the boy. Then he stepped out of the door and Mrs Hudson discreetly handed Miss Kinley a handkerchief while Sherlock quietly crept back to his room.

.

* * *

.

Mycroft was in a bad mood that day. After Hobbe's call, it had been hard for him to focus, something he wasn't accustomed to.

It was therefore not the best moment to hand him that note.

He had been in the library with other members of the 'club' of silent readers, when one of them handed him a newspaper. He was about to throw it aside, annoyed at being given something he had finished reading only a few minutes ago, when it hit him: nobody had joined the table since he had finished the paper just a short time ago, so the boy who offered the news knew full well Mycroft had read it…

He took the proffered paper and began to peruse it. The first pages had nothing spectacular, But then he got to a page he hadn't read the first time…It was from yesterday's paper. He began to inspect it more carefully and soon found, written between the lines of the article, a message.

_ColaVert got Blanchemains'_

Mycroft's brow raised slightly. If that was supposed to be a code, it was too easy:

Colavert was composed by two words, Cola and Vert, French for green. Green Cola…Cola, soda, also known as pop. Pop is the name of the Eton Society. Green Pop: a popper that usually wore a green waistcoat. Mycroft's lips curled slightly: Riddle, that was his name.

Blachemains probably meant Iseult "Blanchemains" (white hands) of Brittany. Hence Blanchmains' would refer to her husband, Tristain. Tristain was also the name of the very first boy who had approached him in the library…He had not shown up today.

_Riddley got Tristain…_And Mycroft was in a bad mood.

.

* * *

.

It started with a piece of paper on Riddley's desk.

In neat letters it simply said

_We see you._

He laughed it off and threw the silly note in the bin.

Then a few minutes later, when he went to get his coat, he found another message, slipped into his pocket.

_Monday, ten pm. Jenny. _

Then he became nervous. He thought nobody knew about that. He had been so careful. He ripped the note and that too went into the bin. Ridley went to class. During the lesson, he opened his book and found it had been written on:

_Farrow. Your fault._

That wasn't fair. Why should Riddley have spoken up to defend Farrow and risked expulsion? If Farrow had been convincing enough, The headmaster would have believed him innocent, surely. It wasn't Riddley's fault he got expelled.

These messages continued throughout the day, containing information Riddley believed nobody at Eton knew, such as his mother being left-handed and a fairly close assessment of his father's income, or that hinted at his being constantly watched, for example the note listing just how many slices of toast he had for breakfast, and the exact times at which he went to the bathroom that morning.

Riddley became gradually more and more paranoid. He tried confronting other members of Pop, but they all laughed it off. They asked to see the notes, but when he tried to get them he found they had all disappeared, including the ones he had thrown in the bin. He had no proof anyone had written anything!

In the afternoon, after lunch, he was walking along the corridors to a more isolated, hidden area where he often went to smoke a cigarette, something he planned to do to calm his nerves. On the way he saw a note on a door he hadn't noticed before. As he moved in closer, he felt his blood run cold.

_You're afraid of the dark._

Suddenly someone grabbed him from behind as a bag was slipped over his head. Instantly the door opened and he was pushed into a dark room. Riddley started shouting.

"Let go of me! You'll get into a lot of trouble for this, you'll regret it! I'll call…"

"Shut up." An icy voice, echoing from the darkness, commanded. Something was shoved into his mouth and he could no longer speak.

"John Riddley, we see you. We know all about you. We have enough information and evidence to get you expelled. We even have, at our disposal, the means to destroy your father's career whenever we wish to do so. We know your fears and weaknesses as you have come to understand."

Riddley could barely breathe. The total absence of light, his captivity and that voice were the chilling images of nightmares brought to fruition. The voice came closer, Riddley could feel its owner looming over him. "You will never again lie to protect yourself, at the expense of another, lest we hear about it. You will never expect others to do your work, lest we expose your dishonesty. You will never dare raise a hand against another, lest he be one of ours."

The voice was now a whisper in his ear.

"Or we will come for you."

The popper began to cry. Something had been put on the cloth that kept him for speaking, for he became drowsy, and although fear and adrenaline shook him, he lost consciousness as he heard his captors leave the room.

Riddley was found an hour later, trembling, his trousers soiled.

The next day, Mycroft resumed the book he had been reading before he had been interrupted by someone handing him a newspaper: it was a collection of works, biographies and anecdotes of a group of philosophers, among whom was he who bade Alexander stand out of his sunlight. _Kynikos_…

Tristain, whose bruises were gradually healing under his clothing, walked to the table. He sat down, book in hand, grinning shyly. Nobody said a word.

Mycroft smiled slightly.

_Woof_.


	6. Choices

_**Author's note:** _Hello everyone! I'm sorry for the wait, but I have been wary of parts of the story yet to come, nervous about writing it etc etc. So I have been procrastinating. Naughty me.

In the end I decided to cut what I can into smaller, less threatening chapters, in order to work my way to the difficult part gradually. It's less scary that way...Yes, I am a literary wimp, I guess. Hopefully you won't mind my choice.

I should have the bigger chapter ready very soon *put head in hands*.

Reviews are Always appreciated.

Thanks for reading!

.

.

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* * *

_Run, Sherlock. Run!_

After seeing Hobbes leave, the boy ran into the room, his mind racing and he opened the wardrobe.

He had to go. He had to go _now._

Sherlock had once noticed a very thin space between the mirror and the wood, on the left door. Now it was a hiding space...

The seven-year-old went to the window, retrieved a pin with a thin piece of wire from behind the frame, then returned to the mirror.

As a maid cleaned every day and it was regularly inspected, he had to be ingenious in order to maintain any kind of privacy and secrecy.

He hoped it would pay off.

Sherlock attached the pin to the wire, then rubbed it vigorously on the woollen carpet. Very carefully he slid the now magnetised pin into the space behind the mirror, untill he felt something and pulled out a twenty pound note, pierced with a very small pin. One at a time, he pulled out every note he had hidden.

Shoving the money in a small wallet he kept, practically empty, in his dresser, he spread out a handkerchief on the floor.

Only the bare necessities, nothing more.

He had to go.

On his makeshift suitcase he placed a book, a pair of socks and small pasta necklace they forced him to make at school for mother's day.

"It's very nice, Sherlock." She had smiled, while father was yelling on the phone at the teacher for having wasted his son's time.

The boy wrapped the items in the handkerchief, grabbed a ball and tried to sneak outside without being spotted.

Father had just left for work, mother was in her room, and he technically still had thirty minutes of free time.

The boy reached the gardens, raced to the gate and crouched behind a bush. Huxley was sitting in his little booth outside, watching something on a small tv. 5 hours since he started duty...Sherlock waited untill he saw the guard shifting uncomfortably. Finally, the man stood.

_Now!_

He threw the red ball as high as he could.

"Oh no!" He cried out loudly in dismay. Huxely looked up to see the red ball flying over the gate and falling noisly in the bushes.

"Oh no, my ball!"

"Master Sherlock, you know you're not supposed to play so close to the gate...Your father might get angry."

"I didn't realise how far I was from the house. Mycroft used to remind me, but now he isn't here and I forgot...I'm sorry..." The boy began to tear up.

"Huxely, are you going to tell my father?"

The man squeezed his legs together. "No, Master Sherlock. I won't. Now run along..."

"Could you find my ball for me, please?"

As Sherlock was perfectly aware, the ex soldier had recently pulled a muscle and was under instructions to not exert himself. He really wasn't supposed to be working, but Huxely didn't want to lose his job...

"Otherwise could you open the gate and let me look for it?" Sherlock suggested innocently.

The guard looked slightly pained. "Master Sherlock, could you just wait a couple of minutes? I..."

"Don't worry, I'll be really quick! I promise!"

Unable to contain himself any longer, Huxley opened the gate. Sherlock duly started searching among the bushes.

"Master Sherlock, I'm just going in her for a moment, you call out if you need me, all right?" And with that, he closed the door to the bathroom.

Sherlock tossed the red ball back into the garden, and closed the gate noisily. It was done. He was out.

"I found the ball! Thanks, Huxely! I'm going back into the house. " He cried loudly.

Moments later, the guard emerged from the little bathroom, checked that the gate was closed and saw the red ball back in the garden.

He shook his head, smiling, unaware that if he had walked out only seconds before, he would have seen the young master disappearing round the corner, running like the wind.


End file.
